I'll be posting travel photos this week as we venture to Disney and St. Augustine. Check it out, starting Monday:
http://filltheframe.blogspot.com/
Saturday, October 13
Thursday, September 20
Grass roots
There's something that happens in this region that was notably missing from my recent business trip to D.C. I shook hands with a lot of people, but not one ever said, "Hey, are you kin to ..." or "Do you know so-and-so from Barbourville?" It didn't strike me until I was at a wedding last weekend on a rolling horse farm in Cynthiana, mingling with new acquaintances underneath the pristine white tent, and more than once, after introducing myself, the next question I heard was about not just where I came from, but who. It's interesting to consider the contrast of how roots are valued here while autonomy is not only appreciated, but presumed in other places. Something to ponder...
Thursday, August 2
Familiar sounds
More about our Scottish heritage here in the mountains: I happened upon an interesting series on Kentucky Educational Television a few nights ago. You can see the tv schedule here. It traces the familiar music of the mountains from the hills of Scotland to the mountains of Kentucky, where it spilled over into mainstream American music.
It reminded me of family get-togethers when I was a little girl, when most of the older generation was still around. Inevitably, someone would pull out a guitar, and the singing commenced. At the time, I didn't have a lot of appreciation for it--it wasn't "cool" to my 80's child ears--but now I miss the opportunity to encounter my history so closely. Those were the same sounds, or perhaps only slightly modified, that my ancestors most likely heard when they settled into the rolling valleys along the Cumberland River.
It reminded me of family get-togethers when I was a little girl, when most of the older generation was still around. Inevitably, someone would pull out a guitar, and the singing commenced. At the time, I didn't have a lot of appreciation for it--it wasn't "cool" to my 80's child ears--but now I miss the opportunity to encounter my history so closely. Those were the same sounds, or perhaps only slightly modified, that my ancestors most likely heard when they settled into the rolling valleys along the Cumberland River.
Friday, July 27
Finding our roots
My inbox contained a curious link to a Scottish ancestry site. Many of us in this region can trace our roots across the Atlantic to Scotland, Ireland and Wales, and my family is no exception. Walking through the family cemetery, which was always more of a history lesson than anything else, my mother would point out various names and talk about how much the land had meant to them. Not too long ago, I made the acquaintance of a Scotsman-turned-American who supplied some insight into my family's history and some long-held points of view that didn't quite make sense (such as, when noting that many of our ancestors actually lived in Ireland for a couple of generations, why they refused to call themselves Irish, and instead invoked the term "Scots-Irish," or, as we sometimes hear it incorrectly these days, "Scotch-Irish.") I think it's time to dig out my dad's genealogy albums and see where it leads. My mother's family were the Adams, and Prichards and Partins, mostly, with names like "Fate," and "Mary Ota," and "Molly," "Lether," and so on. I need to refer to Dad's book, but I recall some very interesting names from earlier generations, particularly the Welsh ancestors on Dad's side. Here's to finding some green roots among the Bluegrass.
Wednesday, June 6
It's all in the perspective
The Bluegrass region is one of the fastest growing in the state. New housing developments, and with them, new churches, schools, and shopping centers are popping up almost as fast as crab grass in the fescue.
The ride from home to work is for me along a winding, twisting expanse of road bordered with precariously balanced rock walls that, as legend has it, were built by slaves. Weathered fences, stark with ebony stain mark the boundaries of horse farms, and often mares and foals can be seen near the roadway, their coats gleaming in the sunrise.
In another part of town, rolling hills that stood as farmland for two hundred years--and wild pastures and forests for centuries prior--are now being combed and cultivated, neat rows of fences traded in for neat rows of streets and sidewalks and crisp new houses.
How one might feel about it depends on the perspective.
When I was a little girl, growing up in another part of the state, I was proud that, when I stood on a certain hill on a certain farm, I knew my grandfather owned the land as far as I could see. Mom would point out where Uncle Fate had his little cabin and would tell stories in his thick Scottish brogue. We could see the family cemetery where weather-worn tombstones marked where generation after generation had come to rest. We walked along paths where my great-great grandmother had gone before, tending her gardens. The thought of that sacred land becoming a subdivision makes me shudder. Hopefully it won't come to that. As someone once remarked, "that's the thing about land. They don't make it any more."
At the same time, the county where I grew up was itself growing by only small increments--Hardee's, then Wal-Mart, made the front page of the paper. Downtown waned and then was revitalized, but year by year, the younger folks flew from the nest and settled in other places. At the same time, the older folks were getting older, and young families found little to entice them to settle down there, which meant that a whole lot more people were moving out than moving in. Schools downsized and consolidated. Businesses closed. Churches struggled for members. If there were a sudden housing boom and a need for new houses, it would have bouyed the hopes of a lot of people. It would've been a really good sign that things were on the upswing.
Around here, the argument has been brewing for a while, and, I think will get worse before it gets better, if it ever does. Heritage vs. future? What kind of heritage, and what kind of future? Who knows. The answer is all in the perspective--where you're standing, where you're looking, and when.
The ride from home to work is for me along a winding, twisting expanse of road bordered with precariously balanced rock walls that, as legend has it, were built by slaves. Weathered fences, stark with ebony stain mark the boundaries of horse farms, and often mares and foals can be seen near the roadway, their coats gleaming in the sunrise.
In another part of town, rolling hills that stood as farmland for two hundred years--and wild pastures and forests for centuries prior--are now being combed and cultivated, neat rows of fences traded in for neat rows of streets and sidewalks and crisp new houses.
How one might feel about it depends on the perspective.
When I was a little girl, growing up in another part of the state, I was proud that, when I stood on a certain hill on a certain farm, I knew my grandfather owned the land as far as I could see. Mom would point out where Uncle Fate had his little cabin and would tell stories in his thick Scottish brogue. We could see the family cemetery where weather-worn tombstones marked where generation after generation had come to rest. We walked along paths where my great-great grandmother had gone before, tending her gardens. The thought of that sacred land becoming a subdivision makes me shudder. Hopefully it won't come to that. As someone once remarked, "that's the thing about land. They don't make it any more."
At the same time, the county where I grew up was itself growing by only small increments--Hardee's, then Wal-Mart, made the front page of the paper. Downtown waned and then was revitalized, but year by year, the younger folks flew from the nest and settled in other places. At the same time, the older folks were getting older, and young families found little to entice them to settle down there, which meant that a whole lot more people were moving out than moving in. Schools downsized and consolidated. Businesses closed. Churches struggled for members. If there were a sudden housing boom and a need for new houses, it would have bouyed the hopes of a lot of people. It would've been a really good sign that things were on the upswing.
Around here, the argument has been brewing for a while, and, I think will get worse before it gets better, if it ever does. Heritage vs. future? What kind of heritage, and what kind of future? Who knows. The answer is all in the perspective--where you're standing, where you're looking, and when.
Friday, May 25
Let the race begin
And you thought the Derby was the big race. If only politics could be so pleasant.
As a matter of fact, I'd like to see elections conducted more like the Derby. No plethora of ads. No mud slinging, except on the track. We'd get an objective spelling out of the candidates' record, complete with voting record, notes about their particular quirks along the way (starts out well but fades, for example). We'd come out to the polls with much fanfare (why doesn't someone sing "My Old Kentucky Home" as we're waiting in line to vote?). We'd see the candidates parade by us one last time, then place our bets--I mean, ballots--and when the dust settled, we'd have a winner.
The process as it is now is a bit tiresome. I think that reflects in the ballots cast. It's certainly reflected in spot news-heavy tv news, which is responding to viewers' insistence that they don't want to see more stories about the political process. Even though it impacts their lives in more ways than a burned-down house in another part of the state ever will, the message connecting viewers to votes has been lost along the way somehow. In the end, many end up wavering behind the curtain, staring at a list of unfamiliar names or a confusing mental mishmash of mixed messages, trying to remember: Which one was against what? What was she going to do? What did he say he'd fight for? What do I have in the fridge for dinner tonight, or am I going to have to stop at the grocery on the way home?
It comes down to deciding that which button you push really matters. Maybe if the process were shorter, more succint--like the Derby--more of us would come to that conclusion.
For now, hang on--it's going to be a bumpy ride into the final stretch.
As a matter of fact, I'd like to see elections conducted more like the Derby. No plethora of ads. No mud slinging, except on the track. We'd get an objective spelling out of the candidates' record, complete with voting record, notes about their particular quirks along the way (starts out well but fades, for example). We'd come out to the polls with much fanfare (why doesn't someone sing "My Old Kentucky Home" as we're waiting in line to vote?). We'd see the candidates parade by us one last time, then place our bets--I mean, ballots--and when the dust settled, we'd have a winner.
The process as it is now is a bit tiresome. I think that reflects in the ballots cast. It's certainly reflected in spot news-heavy tv news, which is responding to viewers' insistence that they don't want to see more stories about the political process. Even though it impacts their lives in more ways than a burned-down house in another part of the state ever will, the message connecting viewers to votes has been lost along the way somehow. In the end, many end up wavering behind the curtain, staring at a list of unfamiliar names or a confusing mental mishmash of mixed messages, trying to remember: Which one was against what? What was she going to do? What did he say he'd fight for? What do I have in the fridge for dinner tonight, or am I going to have to stop at the grocery on the way home?
It comes down to deciding that which button you push really matters. Maybe if the process were shorter, more succint--like the Derby--more of us would come to that conclusion.
For now, hang on--it's going to be a bumpy ride into the final stretch.
Thursday, April 19
How to write about tragedy:
A perspective on the coverage of the Virginia Tech tragedy:
Al's Morning Meeting
Al's Morning Meeting
Friday, April 6
Behind the lights
These are not quality photos, obviously--just snapshots from my cell phone as we had some downtime getting ready for the big story of the day. If you're a big blue fan, you'll know what that was. If you're not, you probably know as well. On deck were eight stations, print media from around the state and beyond. After a few hours of adrenaline, we quieted down for a contemplative service at Central Christian to spend some time on the other religion that does not necessarily involve wearing blue.
Monday, April 2
I wish I'd thought of that...
My friend Jerry has a cool new blog. He's posting a photo a day for a year. Nice idea.
Sunday, April 1
The b word
So a lot of folks have been asking if I have an inside track on a certain coaching situation. The answer: essentially, no. Even if I did, the're isn't anything I could say. So, when it comes to those "B" words--"basketball" and blue" and "Billy," your guess is as good as mine. And you can take that to another "B" word: the "bank."
Monday, February 26
Sugar in the cornbread
I realized something was not right as soon as the words were out of my mouth. The cleaning lady in our building had asked me how I make chilli, and I started, "Well, I just open the can..." The other ladies in the room went silent, and I was left sitting in front of my computer in the newsroom, feeling more than a little awkward. Food out of a can is not what a southern belle serves up.
I had been curious in the kitchen as a little girl, but my mom found it too stressful to deal with my recipe inventions and the mess that was sure to follow. Eventually, I was banned from the kitchen except to do the cleanup after the meal. In college, there wasn't much space or reason to cook for myself, so I did very little of it. On my own, I was too busy starting my career as a journalist. When I got married, I had very little idea of how to make a meal, but I had dreams of a house filled with wonderful aromas from the kitchen. So, I set out to cook.
It was like those bad auditions for American Idol. I was so bad I didn't know it. My husband dubbed the smoke detector "the dinner bell." I frequently had to scrape or cut away charred edges and blackened skins--and not the cajun kind--just so there would be something salvageable for us to eat.
One of the ladies from church, probably out of pity, gave me a cookbook. My mother started offering helpful advice as well. And, with the help of the Food Network, I started to figure out how to make things that were not just palatable, but kind of good. Pretty darn good, actually.
Fast-forward a few years to a few weeks ago, when the office manager in our PR group asked what I'd made for dinner the night before. I explained that I'd made a big pot of chilli--really tasty stuff--and cornbread from scratch. I commented that I might have put a little too much sugar in it.
It was the same awkward silence that had greeted me in a different office years earlier.
"Sugar? In your cornbread? That's unheard of," she said.
"No, it's good," I insisted.
"No, that's cake," she said.
Apparently, southern belles also do not put sugar in their cornbread.
This one does.
So, here's the recipe:
About 1 1/2 cups of self-rising corn meal (makes it easier)
2 eggs
1 cup milk
1/4 cup canola oil
1 cup flour
And...
1/4 cup sugar
Mix it up, pour into a greased baking dish (or iron skillet) put in a preheated oven (about 450 degrees) and bake about 25 minutes.
It comes out pretty fluffy, but so yummy. Best served up hot with a glass of cold milk. Mmmmmmm.
I had been curious in the kitchen as a little girl, but my mom found it too stressful to deal with my recipe inventions and the mess that was sure to follow. Eventually, I was banned from the kitchen except to do the cleanup after the meal. In college, there wasn't much space or reason to cook for myself, so I did very little of it. On my own, I was too busy starting my career as a journalist. When I got married, I had very little idea of how to make a meal, but I had dreams of a house filled with wonderful aromas from the kitchen. So, I set out to cook.
It was like those bad auditions for American Idol. I was so bad I didn't know it. My husband dubbed the smoke detector "the dinner bell." I frequently had to scrape or cut away charred edges and blackened skins--and not the cajun kind--just so there would be something salvageable for us to eat.
One of the ladies from church, probably out of pity, gave me a cookbook. My mother started offering helpful advice as well. And, with the help of the Food Network, I started to figure out how to make things that were not just palatable, but kind of good. Pretty darn good, actually.
Fast-forward a few years to a few weeks ago, when the office manager in our PR group asked what I'd made for dinner the night before. I explained that I'd made a big pot of chilli--really tasty stuff--and cornbread from scratch. I commented that I might have put a little too much sugar in it.
It was the same awkward silence that had greeted me in a different office years earlier.
"Sugar? In your cornbread? That's unheard of," she said.
"No, it's good," I insisted.
"No, that's cake," she said.
Apparently, southern belles also do not put sugar in their cornbread.
This one does.
So, here's the recipe:
About 1 1/2 cups of self-rising corn meal (makes it easier)
2 eggs
1 cup milk
1/4 cup canola oil
1 cup flour
And...
1/4 cup sugar
Mix it up, pour into a greased baking dish (or iron skillet) put in a preheated oven (about 450 degrees) and bake about 25 minutes.
It comes out pretty fluffy, but so yummy. Best served up hot with a glass of cold milk. Mmmmmmm.
Friday, February 16
One of my coworkers flung a copy of a pop culture magazine across the table in our breakroom. It was opened to a story about Barbaro, the Derby winner and Tripe Crown hopeful who went down in epic form. We had watched him fight back from stunning injury, images of horse hero Seabiscuit in our heads as we imagined him racing again after a broken leg.
The article was about his death following another attempt to mend the animal. "I'm glad he's dead!" my coworker exclaimed. "That horse had suffered enough. I'm tired of hearing about it." She went on to say that she believed the owners had kept him alive so long, not for the love of the horse, but to get him well enough to sire offspring and realize a fortune via his bloodline, since racehorses can't be bred artificially. But I think there was more to it.
I think what she was really protesting was the proliferation of Barbaro stories on the air, on the computer, in our magazines and newspapers.
I could say something about our star-crazed society which takes great pleasure in beating dead horses (sorry, bad pun)--when something manages to capture our attention for a moment. We want to see it from every angle, analyze it, dissect it, consume it, until there's nothing left, and even then, we're not satisfied.
I suppose the message was pounded a little harder here, given than horseracing is such a big part of our culture in the Bluegrass. The spring and fall meets are as much a part of life as going to church--more for some folks than others. Horses are legendary here, and few more so than Barbaro. I saw people weep when the news broke of his death. (I have to admit that I felt a little sad, too.)
Still, it's all about perspective. He was a fast horse. He had a strong will to live, apparently. A good animal. Will it make my life any different, though?
Nope.
Not me. My life is full enough without having to consume that of someone I don't even know.
So, while I wish the horse had survived, I think I can agree with my coworker this much: Let sleeping horses lie.
The article was about his death following another attempt to mend the animal. "I'm glad he's dead!" my coworker exclaimed. "That horse had suffered enough. I'm tired of hearing about it." She went on to say that she believed the owners had kept him alive so long, not for the love of the horse, but to get him well enough to sire offspring and realize a fortune via his bloodline, since racehorses can't be bred artificially. But I think there was more to it.
I think what she was really protesting was the proliferation of Barbaro stories on the air, on the computer, in our magazines and newspapers.
I could say something about our star-crazed society which takes great pleasure in beating dead horses (sorry, bad pun)--when something manages to capture our attention for a moment. We want to see it from every angle, analyze it, dissect it, consume it, until there's nothing left, and even then, we're not satisfied.
I suppose the message was pounded a little harder here, given than horseracing is such a big part of our culture in the Bluegrass. The spring and fall meets are as much a part of life as going to church--more for some folks than others. Horses are legendary here, and few more so than Barbaro. I saw people weep when the news broke of his death. (I have to admit that I felt a little sad, too.)
Still, it's all about perspective. He was a fast horse. He had a strong will to live, apparently. A good animal. Will it make my life any different, though?
Nope.
Not me. My life is full enough without having to consume that of someone I don't even know.
So, while I wish the horse had survived, I think I can agree with my coworker this much: Let sleeping horses lie.
Wednesday, February 14
Courage
Ann always smiles.
She was diagnosed with diabetes as a child, and the disease ravaged her body, causing kidney failure and debillitating neuropathy in her feet.
She was optimistic.
As a young adult, she had a double transplant, kidneys and pancreas. It was a long ride up the creek with only a small, stubborn paddle. Her body struggled.
She was grateful for a second chance.
For a few weeks recently, she limped around the office wearing a splint on her foot, which was encased in a soft boot. Her diabetes was cured by the transplant, but she must still deal with the damage it left behind. She shook off every offer of sympathy, instead using the opportunity to encourage us to be organ donors. She used her evenings to help educate college students about the importance of organ donation, and she enouraged others to become involved.
She is happy to be alive.
Ann always smiles.
She was diagnosed with diabetes as a child, and the disease ravaged her body, causing kidney failure and debillitating neuropathy in her feet.
She was optimistic.
As a young adult, she had a double transplant, kidneys and pancreas. It was a long ride up the creek with only a small, stubborn paddle. Her body struggled.
She was grateful for a second chance.
For a few weeks recently, she limped around the office wearing a splint on her foot, which was encased in a soft boot. Her diabetes was cured by the transplant, but she must still deal with the damage it left behind. She shook off every offer of sympathy, instead using the opportunity to encourage us to be organ donors. She used her evenings to help educate college students about the importance of organ donation, and she enouraged others to become involved.
She is happy to be alive.
Ann always smiles.
Thursday, February 8
Monday, February 5
To be a kid again...
...when snow isn't about the trouble it will make during rush hour, but instead about what kind of snow angel or snowball it will make.
Friday, February 2
White Bluegrass
I see so many scenes like this--actually, far more beautiful than this--but rarely have my camera. I happened to have it today. I snapped this on my way home by just pointing the camera at the windshield and clicking without looking at the frame. This isn't a great photo by great photo standards, but you get the feeling of the scene, even if you can't see both horses very well. The greatest thrill is watching the horses break into a run at sunset, when the light is golden. I'm always amazed at the traffic whizzing by, busy drivers who don't seem to notice the treasures just beyond the window. I hope to find time one weekend to just drive around and take my time getting a nice photo, but with two girls and a full schedule, doesn't look like it's happening anytime soon. Still, this goes to show there's lots of beauty around, if we just take a moment to notice.
Thursday, January 25
Wednesday, January 24
The imperfect storm
A puny example of winter weather: a thin coat of snow, a little ice, the sky ingraciously spitting a few flakes in our direction.
And yet, it was a weather disaster.
People behaved like Floridians on vacation in Denver at Christmas. It was as if they'd never seen this white stuff on the ground before and had no idea how to drive in it.
Schools were canceled, church services abandoned. Making the commute to Lexington this morning, there were casualties strewn along the sides of the highway--cars that didn't quite make it, laid to waste by a skiff of snow.
Admittedly, there were a couple of touchy spots. Stopping meant allowing for a little more distance to slow down.
One guy flipped his JEEP. He climbed out okay, but a little stunned as a photojournalist rushed to capture his expression. The noon newscasts were devoted to minute-by-minute coverage of the weather event of the season. They interviewed people rushing to buy bread and milk. (Why is it always bread and milk? Why doesn't anyone hurry to stock up on Italian sausage and green tea?)
Going home today should be interesting.
Let's hope we make it through this alive.
And yet, it was a weather disaster.
People behaved like Floridians on vacation in Denver at Christmas. It was as if they'd never seen this white stuff on the ground before and had no idea how to drive in it.
Schools were canceled, church services abandoned. Making the commute to Lexington this morning, there were casualties strewn along the sides of the highway--cars that didn't quite make it, laid to waste by a skiff of snow.
Admittedly, there were a couple of touchy spots. Stopping meant allowing for a little more distance to slow down.
One guy flipped his JEEP. He climbed out okay, but a little stunned as a photojournalist rushed to capture his expression. The noon newscasts were devoted to minute-by-minute coverage of the weather event of the season. They interviewed people rushing to buy bread and milk. (Why is it always bread and milk? Why doesn't anyone hurry to stock up on Italian sausage and green tea?)
Going home today should be interesting.
Let's hope we make it through this alive.
Saturday, January 20
There are moments when Nature reveals the passion hidden beneath the careless calm of her ordinary moods--violent spring flashing white on almond-blossom through the purple clouds; a snowy, moonlit peak, with its single star, soaring up to the passionate blue; or against the flames of sunset, an old yew-tree standing dark guardian of some fiery secret. -- John Galsworthy
One of the great blessings of my life was spending my childhood in the cradle of nature. Our home, the house still occupied by my parents, stands in a valley, mountains rising on three sides, the Cumberland River marking the fourth boundary. At one time, my ancestors, mostly Scot immigrants who had stopped for a time in northern Ireland, owned land as far as the eye could see. My grandfather had tried to keep the land intact, but in time, it has been carved up to a fraction of its size. Still, a large expanse remains, and it was my playground.
My mother's fear of snakes kept me out of the forest most of the year, but when a good snowfall came, if it had been preceded by a sufficient number of days with temperatures below freezing, my mother would let us go out and wander to our heart's content, with instructions only to be back by a certain time.
One winter expedition taught me a healthy fear of the power of nature, and the cradle that could rock rather fiercely.
After bundling up until my arms and legs were nearly immobile, I went out into a snowfall that reached my knees. Normally, I hiked an old wagon path--now used for tractors to take feed to the horses and cattle. But this time, I started up the side of the mountain, so dense there were places that were impassible. The weight of the snow pulled pine branches low and made them heavy to move aside so that I could walk between the trees. The higher I climbed, the faster my heart pounded--not just from the exertion, but from the feeling of seeing something new, something perhaps no one had seen before, even if it was just a tree or rock or some stubborn bush. It was my expedition.
I remember the almost tangible quiet of that day as I looked back to make sure I could still see the plume of smoke from our chimney. No rumble of the highway across the valley or chatter of birds or squirrels. No sign of life but my own. The only break in the icy expanse of noiseless calm was the occasional crack of a branch giving way to the snow, and my own breath.
At some point, I turned to look again at the valley below me, but found myself surrounded by a fortress of snow-laden pine boughs and bare grey trunks as straight and unwelcoming as prison bars. I turned in this direction and that, and there was no clearing. Claustrophobia took hold, and for a moment I was as frozen as the trees in my fear. I called out, but it seemed as though the snow silenced my cries as if I'd been shouting into a comforter draped across a clothes line.
Full-on panic grabbed hold, and I began to run blindly, guided only by gravity as I sought to get down the hill. I fell several times as I went, at one point nearly falling on a broken tree branch sticking up from the forest floor like a spear. Down, down I went, until I found myself propelled free from the trees and plummeting down a bare hillside not far from my house.
I remember lying on the ground for a moment. Beneath the snow, it was hard and unforgiving, but I was glad to have found it. I moved one leg, then the other, then both arms. By then, I was numb with cold, and it took me a moment to get up and make my way to the house. My mother greeted me at the door, angry and worried, but soon, I had warm clothes and hot cocoa by the fire, as was our ritual.
When I hear people say that it doesn't snow the way it used to, I take it into perspective. I don't doubt that it will snow--really snow--eventually, maybe tonight. On most days this winter, as I pass the crisp black fencerows and see the sun shining off the backs of the horses in their confines, I wonder what the snow will be like for them, and anticipate a new poetic scene to witness. Still, I think the naysayers are right, in a sense. For me, no winter will be like those I knew in the mountains. (Given my sense of direction, or lack therof, perhaps that's for the best.)
That's the thing about memories, though. They keep those moments with us and become a part of who we are.
Let it snow.
One of the great blessings of my life was spending my childhood in the cradle of nature. Our home, the house still occupied by my parents, stands in a valley, mountains rising on three sides, the Cumberland River marking the fourth boundary. At one time, my ancestors, mostly Scot immigrants who had stopped for a time in northern Ireland, owned land as far as the eye could see. My grandfather had tried to keep the land intact, but in time, it has been carved up to a fraction of its size. Still, a large expanse remains, and it was my playground.
My mother's fear of snakes kept me out of the forest most of the year, but when a good snowfall came, if it had been preceded by a sufficient number of days with temperatures below freezing, my mother would let us go out and wander to our heart's content, with instructions only to be back by a certain time.
One winter expedition taught me a healthy fear of the power of nature, and the cradle that could rock rather fiercely.
After bundling up until my arms and legs were nearly immobile, I went out into a snowfall that reached my knees. Normally, I hiked an old wagon path--now used for tractors to take feed to the horses and cattle. But this time, I started up the side of the mountain, so dense there were places that were impassible. The weight of the snow pulled pine branches low and made them heavy to move aside so that I could walk between the trees. The higher I climbed, the faster my heart pounded--not just from the exertion, but from the feeling of seeing something new, something perhaps no one had seen before, even if it was just a tree or rock or some stubborn bush. It was my expedition.
I remember the almost tangible quiet of that day as I looked back to make sure I could still see the plume of smoke from our chimney. No rumble of the highway across the valley or chatter of birds or squirrels. No sign of life but my own. The only break in the icy expanse of noiseless calm was the occasional crack of a branch giving way to the snow, and my own breath.
At some point, I turned to look again at the valley below me, but found myself surrounded by a fortress of snow-laden pine boughs and bare grey trunks as straight and unwelcoming as prison bars. I turned in this direction and that, and there was no clearing. Claustrophobia took hold, and for a moment I was as frozen as the trees in my fear. I called out, but it seemed as though the snow silenced my cries as if I'd been shouting into a comforter draped across a clothes line.
Full-on panic grabbed hold, and I began to run blindly, guided only by gravity as I sought to get down the hill. I fell several times as I went, at one point nearly falling on a broken tree branch sticking up from the forest floor like a spear. Down, down I went, until I found myself propelled free from the trees and plummeting down a bare hillside not far from my house.
I remember lying on the ground for a moment. Beneath the snow, it was hard and unforgiving, but I was glad to have found it. I moved one leg, then the other, then both arms. By then, I was numb with cold, and it took me a moment to get up and make my way to the house. My mother greeted me at the door, angry and worried, but soon, I had warm clothes and hot cocoa by the fire, as was our ritual.
When I hear people say that it doesn't snow the way it used to, I take it into perspective. I don't doubt that it will snow--really snow--eventually, maybe tonight. On most days this winter, as I pass the crisp black fencerows and see the sun shining off the backs of the horses in their confines, I wonder what the snow will be like for them, and anticipate a new poetic scene to witness. Still, I think the naysayers are right, in a sense. For me, no winter will be like those I knew in the mountains. (Given my sense of direction, or lack therof, perhaps that's for the best.)
That's the thing about memories, though. They keep those moments with us and become a part of who we are.
Let it snow.
Friday, January 19
Next time, knock--and lock
The hallowed halls of one of our state's premier universities was filled with cries of horror this afternoon. And it was my fault--sort of.
Preparing to give a presentation just a couple of doors down from the president's office, I had a few minutes to spare and made a dash for the bathroom across the hall. I opened one of the stalls to see someone I knew sitting there in a compromised position. She screamed, and startled, I screamed. I'm not sure why, looking back on it. It wasn't the most pleasant scene, but it wasn't as if I'd encountered an axe murderer on the other side of the stall door. Maybe it was all the caffeine I had in my tea at lunch, or the adrenaline that preceeds public speaking. Or it simply could have been the horror of recognizing the shocked face staring back at me and, in a nanosecond, realizing that I would have to face her again, fully clothed.
Whatever caused it, the screams caused a melee of excitement, and soon, there were was a mass of people in the bathroom.
Fortunately, it was determined that the university president's security was not threatened.
Not unless he forgets to lock the stall door, too.
Preparing to give a presentation just a couple of doors down from the president's office, I had a few minutes to spare and made a dash for the bathroom across the hall. I opened one of the stalls to see someone I knew sitting there in a compromised position. She screamed, and startled, I screamed. I'm not sure why, looking back on it. It wasn't the most pleasant scene, but it wasn't as if I'd encountered an axe murderer on the other side of the stall door. Maybe it was all the caffeine I had in my tea at lunch, or the adrenaline that preceeds public speaking. Or it simply could have been the horror of recognizing the shocked face staring back at me and, in a nanosecond, realizing that I would have to face her again, fully clothed.
Whatever caused it, the screams caused a melee of excitement, and soon, there were was a mass of people in the bathroom.
Fortunately, it was determined that the university president's security was not threatened.
Not unless he forgets to lock the stall door, too.
And now, the news...
The news doesn't have much news in it any more.
Maybe I'm a little young to be a curmudgeon, but our local news seems to have devolved into the "Wreck/Fire/Shooting of the Day." It's kind of like eating a candy bar for dinner. A quick fix, but it doesn't stick with you. (Unless it's a Butterfinger, maybe...I digress.)
As a wet-behind-the-ears journalist, first in print, and eventually in television and radio as well, I evolved from being an ambulance chaser who slept with a police scanner by the bed (I had developed the strange ability to filter out the chatter and awaken only when a code was called for an accident with injuries, the coroner, or the fire department). I became someone who measured the value of a story by how many people would be affected or whether there was some broad benefit to putting those words to print or saying them on the air. Unfortunately, my job occasionally still involved reporting on the less savory side of life, but by and large those measuring sticks made most stories worth my while in the latter part of my days as a reporter. (Although admittedly, I occasionally indulged my funny bone by writing about some of the more quirky things I observed.)
Since changing career paths (I now work in public relations), it's often hard for me to watch the local news. I still have friends in the business, and I respect them and what they do, but it seems the overall direction is a bit misguided. They argue that focus groups and viewer surveys and ratings books consistently indicate that we want to know about "breaking news," that is, if something is immediately happening, and we want to know about our personal safety and whether any crime or accidents have occurred. I admit those points have legs. But that doesn't mean I want to see a live shot of a reporter standing in front of a smoldering house that burned the night before, where no other homes were damaged and everyone made it out alive, or that the lead story should be an accident with an injured driver, when traffic wasn't really affected, and there were no unusual circumstances or criminal acts involved. And if Miss America is in trouble, well, I feel for her, but it's not worth a five-minute block of news, covering every angle of her angst. We're being fed "shock value" stories, and many of those are weak at best. It's not that much of it is not worth reporting--although an argument could be made there. It's just that those stories are not worth the emphasis being placed on them via station resources and my time spent watching them--at least until I can get my fingers on the remote.
What happened to stories that affect me and my family in tangible ways? What about our schools--and I don't mean whether somebody wrote a hit list, but what is going on in the classrooms? It doesn't have to be dull storytelling. In the right hands, it can be compelling. What about the faith community? Millions of us go to church or synagogue or some other house of worship each week. These are an important force in our society. What about health? What about finances--stories that help us have a healthier bottom line? What about our neighbors--and not those who are arrested, but those who are hungry? Or feeding the hungry? Or helping adults who never learned to read? What things has our state government done to affect how we live, work, play and pay?
The Commonwealth of Kentucky is an amazing place. There's more in it than the latest fender-bender or political fight or stabbing du jour.
Tell me about it.
Maybe I'm a little young to be a curmudgeon, but our local news seems to have devolved into the "Wreck/Fire/Shooting of the Day." It's kind of like eating a candy bar for dinner. A quick fix, but it doesn't stick with you. (Unless it's a Butterfinger, maybe...I digress.)
As a wet-behind-the-ears journalist, first in print, and eventually in television and radio as well, I evolved from being an ambulance chaser who slept with a police scanner by the bed (I had developed the strange ability to filter out the chatter and awaken only when a code was called for an accident with injuries, the coroner, or the fire department). I became someone who measured the value of a story by how many people would be affected or whether there was some broad benefit to putting those words to print or saying them on the air. Unfortunately, my job occasionally still involved reporting on the less savory side of life, but by and large those measuring sticks made most stories worth my while in the latter part of my days as a reporter. (Although admittedly, I occasionally indulged my funny bone by writing about some of the more quirky things I observed.)
Since changing career paths (I now work in public relations), it's often hard for me to watch the local news. I still have friends in the business, and I respect them and what they do, but it seems the overall direction is a bit misguided. They argue that focus groups and viewer surveys and ratings books consistently indicate that we want to know about "breaking news," that is, if something is immediately happening, and we want to know about our personal safety and whether any crime or accidents have occurred. I admit those points have legs. But that doesn't mean I want to see a live shot of a reporter standing in front of a smoldering house that burned the night before, where no other homes were damaged and everyone made it out alive, or that the lead story should be an accident with an injured driver, when traffic wasn't really affected, and there were no unusual circumstances or criminal acts involved. And if Miss America is in trouble, well, I feel for her, but it's not worth a five-minute block of news, covering every angle of her angst. We're being fed "shock value" stories, and many of those are weak at best. It's not that much of it is not worth reporting--although an argument could be made there. It's just that those stories are not worth the emphasis being placed on them via station resources and my time spent watching them--at least until I can get my fingers on the remote.
What happened to stories that affect me and my family in tangible ways? What about our schools--and I don't mean whether somebody wrote a hit list, but what is going on in the classrooms? It doesn't have to be dull storytelling. In the right hands, it can be compelling. What about the faith community? Millions of us go to church or synagogue or some other house of worship each week. These are an important force in our society. What about health? What about finances--stories that help us have a healthier bottom line? What about our neighbors--and not those who are arrested, but those who are hungry? Or feeding the hungry? Or helping adults who never learned to read? What things has our state government done to affect how we live, work, play and pay?
The Commonwealth of Kentucky is an amazing place. There's more in it than the latest fender-bender or political fight or stabbing du jour.
Tell me about it.
Saturday, January 13
How far have we come?
I was 11 years old the first time I heard a racist joke. Until that day, I wasn't even aware that social lines had been drawn according to skin color. The independent school system I attended in southeast Kentucky was along the main route between three states and had a relatively diverse student population, so I had never known what it meant to be segregated. My mother taught first grade, and once a year, she was asked to record the number of minority students in her class. She has often commented that she used to have to look at the children as she filled out the form because she had never paid much attention to race while she worked to fill her students' minds.
Just before I started sixth grade, our family moved to my mother's home town. It's a friendly place, but it was there, on my first day in new class with a sea of caucasion faces like mine, a small, red-haired boy told me a joke using a word I'd never heard before. I laughed nervously, pretending I understood, but when I went home and asked my mother what the word meant, she was horrified and told me to never say that word again. She told me about something called prejudice--pre-judging someone based on superficial characteristics. Later, I asked my new friend Kim, a pretty, dark-haired girl with pale blue eyes and dimpled cheeks, if there were any children in our school who weren't white. She looked at me very innocently and surprised. "I've never known anyone who wasn't," she answered. "Have you?"
I was in high school before I saw a minority student in our school system. Although I heard a few more racial slurs over the years, I found that most of the kids I came to know weren't racist but rather simply unaware of a culture other than our own, mostly so-called "Scots-Irish" ancestry (that's a discussion for another time).
Several years later, I've lived in several communities around the Commonwealth, from very small towns to more metro areas, and I have come to know people with rich and varied heritages and cultures. It makes life a rather interesting patchwork quilt. I relish the stories of my own family, and appreciate the value of histories as varied as the landscape of our world.
But if I had been lulled into thinking we're all holding hands around a unity candle, I was jarred back to reality for a moment in the waiting room at a doctor's office this week. The man next to me began to strike up a conversation about football, hunting, and finally, minorities.
"I'm about as prejudiced as they come," he announced, a measure of pride in his voice. It seemed to me that the crowded waiting room quieted.
It took me back to sixth grade and the awkward moment looking at little red-haired Todd.
There was no urge to laugh politely this time.
"I try my best not to be," I said shortly, and went back to reading a book.
Something made me look up, however. I raised my head and caught the eye of the woman directly across from me. A little girl with skin much darker than her own slept with her head on the woman's chest. The woman smiled.
I returned the smile, but with a troubling question whispering itself in my ear. How far have we come-- really?
Just before I started sixth grade, our family moved to my mother's home town. It's a friendly place, but it was there, on my first day in new class with a sea of caucasion faces like mine, a small, red-haired boy told me a joke using a word I'd never heard before. I laughed nervously, pretending I understood, but when I went home and asked my mother what the word meant, she was horrified and told me to never say that word again. She told me about something called prejudice--pre-judging someone based on superficial characteristics. Later, I asked my new friend Kim, a pretty, dark-haired girl with pale blue eyes and dimpled cheeks, if there were any children in our school who weren't white. She looked at me very innocently and surprised. "I've never known anyone who wasn't," she answered. "Have you?"
I was in high school before I saw a minority student in our school system. Although I heard a few more racial slurs over the years, I found that most of the kids I came to know weren't racist but rather simply unaware of a culture other than our own, mostly so-called "Scots-Irish" ancestry (that's a discussion for another time).
Several years later, I've lived in several communities around the Commonwealth, from very small towns to more metro areas, and I have come to know people with rich and varied heritages and cultures. It makes life a rather interesting patchwork quilt. I relish the stories of my own family, and appreciate the value of histories as varied as the landscape of our world.
But if I had been lulled into thinking we're all holding hands around a unity candle, I was jarred back to reality for a moment in the waiting room at a doctor's office this week. The man next to me began to strike up a conversation about football, hunting, and finally, minorities.
"I'm about as prejudiced as they come," he announced, a measure of pride in his voice. It seemed to me that the crowded waiting room quieted.
It took me back to sixth grade and the awkward moment looking at little red-haired Todd.
There was no urge to laugh politely this time.
"I try my best not to be," I said shortly, and went back to reading a book.
Something made me look up, however. I raised my head and caught the eye of the woman directly across from me. A little girl with skin much darker than her own slept with her head on the woman's chest. The woman smiled.
I returned the smile, but with a troubling question whispering itself in my ear. How far have we come-- really?
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